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Nipples can’t lie in the morning,
with a chilled winter sky bearing it’s warning.
But with cinnamon skin and burnt orange hair,
i could show him warmth.
I visit him most days.
He grinds coffee beans,
pours velvet
and slides it down my throat
before the sun has climbed up over the horizon.

He smiles as I walk in the door,
all early eyed and dewy sighed.
(come on, make me sigh a little more_)
We small talk and he asks if I’m well,
(I’d be better if you moved a little closer_)
pitter patter glancing,
shy eye dancing.
He stretches to reach a top shelf,
his t-shirt reaching up with him
(just take it off_)
and exposing rum and raisin dimple
from the hip,
(grab mine_)
in a stomach that moistens my gums.
His arm wrestles with lean muscle and machine
(wrestle ME, don’t be mean_)
‘Would you like sugar?’
(Yes please,
you tease_)
But I shake my head,
swing my curls
as he paints milky swirls
that impress the girls.
(impress, press, PRESSS!!)
His hands move fast,
they are so clever
(I’ll show you where to put them)
He lifts the cup,
brimming with aroma
(
just spill it over my dress
)
and wipes a lonely drop with his fingers,
that he brings to his lips
(
oh, ohhhhh
)
and kisses it’s tips.
His tongue is swift,
it’s pinky red
(
my pink is swelling
)
He hands me my drink
And accidentally brushes my finger
(
@%^&(*#&^&
)
And I smile my goodbye
rush back outside
to where the air calms my flush,
chills down my red,
cools my cheeks
and sends mischief back on her way

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testing1

Joined June 2008

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